


Jasmine and Yarrow

by Johaerys



Series: This and This and This: Achilles & Patroclus [5]
Category: The Iliad - Homer, The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Blow Jobs, Explicit Sexual Content, Hurt/Comfort, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Oral Sex, Praise Kink, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-14
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-22 19:47:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30043791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Johaerys/pseuds/Johaerys
Summary: Outside, there is war and chaos, blood and smoke, fire and rage and hunger. There is conquest. There is the price of glory.Inside, there is him. Him, with his gentle eyes and his kind smile, with his soft hands that smell of jasmine and yarrow, of myrtle and earth. Him, him, him.It's always been him.Or: when the war gets too much, Patroclus is there.
Relationships: Achilles/Patroclus, Achilles/Patroclus (Song of Achilles)
Series: This and This and This: Achilles & Patroclus [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1934749
Comments: 25
Kudos: 71





	Jasmine and Yarrow

**Author's Note:**

> I have this headcanon that Achilles is just as affected by the war and the killing as (almost) every other man, and that one of the main reasons why he appears so blasé and unperturbed by it all is because Patroclus is there to help ease away those daily burdens. In more ways than one... heh
> 
> Also, I just really wanted to write some gentle!dom Patroclus and submissive Achilles. Enjoy! *yeets it at you and runs*

The hunger.

The hunger.

The war, and the rage, and the hunger. 

Every day, Achilles opens his eyes to it, to the blood red dawn of Troy. Every day, he pulls himself out of the furs and the warmth of his bed, away from the safety of the arms that encircle him. 

Every day, he dons his armour.

With precise movements, mechanical, he puts on his golden chest piece, his greeves, his arm guards, his pauldrons, his iron-studded belt. The weight of each layer presses him into shape, into something that has human outlines and a human face and a human voice, but underneath it all, there's just fire and hunger and endless, aching want. 

He straps on his shield, his flashing sword, his bronze-tipped spear. The heft of them in his hands pulls him down, turns him into a creature of death and sharp edges, a creature of glory.

Quiet footsteps on the furs behind him. Delicate hands lower his helmet onto his head, fix it into place. Achilles peers into the gentle brown eyes that regard him with such fondness he aches, savours the lips that press against his own. For a moment, a blink of an eye, the intake of a single breath, the world is quiet. 

"Come back to me, Achilles."

He will. Always. 

Atop his golden chariot, he is a god, a force to be reckoned with, a menace. He is the righteous sword that cuts through flesh, through skin and bone. He is the spear that always finds its mark, that pierces through armour, that wounds to the heart. 

The Trojans flee before him, blinded by their sun’s reflection on his armour made of gold and godly favour. They scramble away from him like ants; never fast enough. Their wails ring in his ears long after he has cut them down, swift and merciless like the scythe cuts through the thin stems of ripe wheat. 

Out here, in the ravaged plains of Troy, in the sweat and grit of battle, in the moments before steel meets steel, there is no room for mercy. There is no time for thought, no need. There is only war and chaos, the blood that stains his hands and his face crimson, the heat of the fires that eat away at flesh, wood and dry grass alike as the Achaeans lay waste to Priam’s kingdom.

Achilles stands in the midst of the battlefield, breathes in the smoke and the terror, the screams of the fallen, the blood. 

He closes his eyes to the colour red. 

Achilles' steps are slow when he walks through the leather flaps of his tent. The stench of the battle is still thick in his nostrils, and his hand that holds his spear is heavy. 

Inside, he is there, waiting for him, like always.

Silently, Achilles lets him help him out of his blood-stained armour. One by one, the layers are taken away, set aside. Warm, damp cloths are pressed to his skin, wiping away the sweat and the dirt, the blood, the horror. The water is scented with myrtle and rosemary; it soothes his tired muscles, his aching limbs. 

After this, careful hands anoint his now clean skin with sweet, precious oil, working away every knot. Achilles hums as he leans into that touch, his back pressed against that strong and gentle chest he knows so well.

Outside, there is blood and chaos, conquest and glory. Inside, there's just him.

He, who kissed him for the first time when they were thirteen, under the amber glow of a Phthian sunset, where the waves broke, mouth sweet with honey and spices.

He, who yields sweetly and holds him ever sweeter, with his gentle eyes and his iron spine, and profound, quiet care. 

He, the hidden flame of the Danaans, the Best of the Greeks- the best of men. Patient, immovable, serene. 

His scent fills Achilles' lungs, settles into his heart like a balm. He can smell him everywhere here, over the curling tendrils of incense smoke, the tang of sweet wine. His skin smells of jasmine and yarrow, of clean sweat, of warm, wet earth. Warm, familiar, undeniably his.

Most days, that is enough to take away the weight, the ache, the stench of the war that lingers. Achilles settles against him, feels the heart that thrums in sync with his own, closes his eyes and lets himself drift away. 

Other days, it's harder. The screams of the dying horses still ring in his ears, and the pleas of the fallen still grate at his nerves, and he wonders if the prophecy is enough of an excuse. 

On those days, Achilles closes his eyes, and he still sees red. 

"Please," he whispers. 

The fingers stop their careful ministrations. A moment of silence, the crackling of the incense stick in the lit brazier, the soft rasp of breath. Then, slowly, the body beside him uncoils, stands up on soundless feet. The hands move upwards, smoothing up his arms, follow the curve of his shoulder, the line of his collarbone. They dance up the column of his throat, curl around his jaw, hold it like precious glass. 

"Look at me, Achilles." 

Achilles looks up into the eyes he has spent days, months, years peering into. Deep set and almond shaped, gentle and knowing; a lifetime would not be enough to learn every nuance, every thought, every shifting undercurrent in those rich, honey brown depths. A lifetime that they don't have. 

He tilts his chin up, holds that loving gaze as if it were a lifeline. 

"Do you want this?"

_Yes,_ Achilles nods. _Please._

He is kissed, then: on his brow, his cheeks, his temples, the bridge of his nose. Jaw. Mouth. Achilles breathes, kisses the lips that kiss him, pulls them gently between his teeth to suck, to bite, to taste. 

"Good. You're doing so well."

Achilles kneels when he is instructed to do so. One knee, then the other. His palms press to the tops of his thighs. He listens to the soft rustle of fabric unbound, watches as each layer of clothing discarded reveals tanned skin, firm over taut muscles, smooth and unblemished save for the dark freckles that Achilles has traced with fingers, lips and tongue, time and time again. 

He hungers for it. He aches. 

"Achilles."

He looks up, pulse throbbing in his throat.

"Open."

He lets himself be pulled forward, lets his head be guided down. He opens his mouth to firm, warm pressure, to the familiar sharp, salt-sweet taste. 

Achilles' hair is wound around slender fingers, fingers that keep him in place, pressed against the body that stands before him. His nose is buried into dark curls, and his breath cuts off, but he wants more, more. This way, there's no room for thought, no room for the colours that swirl behind his eyelids. He doesn't want to think, he doesn't need to breathe. He only needs this: the hands that anchor him, the steadying presence, the quiet command. They remind him of who he is. What he is. 

They remind him of lazy afternoons, of hours spent swimming in the sea or lying on the warm grass beside a bubbling stream. They remind him of the rhythmic and steady rasp of a pestle in a mortar grinding herbs into dust, of maple leaves rustling on their boughs, of painted constellations. They remind him of timid smiles and quiet sighs, of hushed laughter in the dark and of lips he’s kissed in a rose quartz cave on Mount Pelion, in an olive grove in Phthia, in a sunless room in Skyros, on a ship that crossed the waves of the Aegean to land on Troy's golden shores. 

Of two bodies that have become one, again and again and again, under sun and moon and stars, under summer and winter skies.

They remind him of him. They remind him of them.

The insistent pressure at the back of his throat is a comfort. Achilles leans into it, keeps his mouth open when it tries to fall closed, ignores the reflexive tears that run down his cheeks.

"Yes, very good, that's it," that beloved voice says, soothing and calming as Achilles gasps, gags. "Look at how well you're doing, how well you take me. You take care of me. You fight for me, for us all. So good, so very strong."

The words fall and swirl around him like feathers. Achilles sinks deeper into quiet. 

He is weightless, he's floating. He's nothing but himself here, in the tent they share, in the space that exists between their bodies. It's such a relief, to be nothing but this, nothing but soft, panting, pliant flesh. He feels his eyes fall closed, his limbs turn to air. 

The pressure is suddenly taken away. Achilles takes in a gasping breath that makes him dizzy. He blinks up, bleary eyed, and sees a smile tugging at full lips. 

"More?"

Achilles nods, breathless.

He loses track of time for a while after. 

When his throat is tender and raw, and his head so light he feels he will levitate, strong hands pull him upright, set him down on palms and knees. The fingers that massaged the oil on his tired muscles before now roam his body, trace the channel of his spine, smooth down the curve of his thighs. 

It's a thorough, silent exploration. Achilles feels them brushing over his warmed up skin, over his sensitive flesh, careful and examining. He feels them wrapping around him in a firm grip, coaxing more sighs, more gasps, more pleasure out of him. 

"I will open you up now, Achilles."

Achilles shudders, nods again. There is no need for his reply, because it is known. 

_Yes. Please._

A shift, a curl, a sharp spike of pleasure. Two fingers, three, four. They open him, stretch him, fill him. Achilles presses his cheek onto the furs, squeezes his eyes shut, shivers with the unbearable, _unbearable_ tenderness. 

"Beautiful." Lips skim Achilles' spine, the back of his neck. A whisper that warms his skin, a dragging kiss, a flick of a tongue over the shell of his ear. "Look at you, so beautiful. See how good you can be, how soft, how gentle? You're so beautiful, like this."

Oil slips from Achilles' body onto the rug beneath him, drops arcing lazily down the inside of his thighs. Another shift, a sudden emptiness, then more pressure, different. Different, and so achingly familiar. 

He gasps as he is stretched, as the hollow parts fill with warmth. He closes his eyes, lets it flood him to the brim. He opens his ears, listens to the rhythmic slap of skin on skin, to the soft sighs and quiet grunts, to the rasp of panting breath. Tenderly, inch by inch, he surrenders to the body that dips inside him again and again, lazy and meandering like the streams on Mount Pelion, endless. 

Arms wrap around him, pull him up. Lips seek his own, the vibration of soft moans in his mouth, his lungs. Achilles arches on a sigh, reaches back, threads his fingers through dark, unruly curls. 

"Please," Achilles pants, wanting. 

"Tell me. Tell me, _philtatos._ "

"I need to... I need-"

"Yes?"

"I need you." Achilles licks his lips, tastes the sweetness. "I need you."

A palm smooths down his chest, his stomach, his navel, dips down. 

A cry, a shudder. He is unraveling, a ball of twine. He is water, he is fire, he is air. He is a cloud, soft and shapeless, drifting along an untroubled summer sky. 

He is held, kissed, filled, stretched, whole. He is soaring, higher, higher, higher-

Strong, loving arms are there to catch him when he falls. 

Achilles lets go and jumps over the edge. 

The stars are high over the plains of Troy now. The world is quiet.

Achilles turns lazily into the arms that are wrapped around him. His limbs are loose, his muscles relaxed, the hunger sated as if it never was. Everything's warm and serene now, fuzzy around the edges. He presses his cheek against the chest beside him, listens to the heart that beats in sync with his own.

Outside, there is war and chaos. There is blood and horror, there is fire and smoke and hunger. There is conquest, there is the price of glory.

Inside, there is him. Him, with his gentle eyes and his kind smile, with his soft hands that smell of jasmine and yarrow, of myrtle and rosemary. Him, him, him. 

It's always been him. 

"Patroclus," Achilles whispers, content, and closes his eyes.

_Pa-tro-clus._

**Author's Note:**

> I'm [JohaerysLavellan on Tumblr](https://johaeryslavellan.tumblr.com/), and **@johaerys_** on Twitter! Come say hi if you fancy :)
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! Kudos and comments are greatly appreciated <3


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